My son started high school and I'm faced with a frightening revelation. His shirts need ironing. Where did this nightmare come from, and why am I holding a steaming iron at 11pm?
I don't iron. No need to. My clothes are casual, crumpled and many are even worn with holes. I don't care that much for the pressed look. So none of my clothes require the weight of hot metal and the shot of steam. Ok, I lie, there is a half silk-half cotton shirt dress I bought in Paris, but, well, that's Paris for you. You do crazy, stylish things.
For years, our household has had a clear division of labour in this area. It has not been without contest and tears. I'm the non-ironer, who, unleashed from the board, 'doesn't know how lucky she is', apparently. Lucky, that is, that I don't have to iron shirts each week. This isn't necessarily a gender thing, it's a choice thing, isn't it? I choose to not wear high maintenance clothes; my partner chooses to wear business shirts. Well, come to think of it, he doesn't. But that's what he's stuck with.
And now that's what we're stuck with.
The local high school has set us up with cotton-blend white shirts, which appear to be, um, crumpled after washing. What is this new horror?
In the first week, I handed the boy the iron and said 'this is how you iron a shirt. Just don't burn yourself. Or the shirt. Or the ironing board. And if you drop the iron, don't try to catch it. OK. Go.' Off he went, and produced a slightly less crumpled version of what had come out of the packet. Fold-lines still visible, sure, but it was clear an effort had been made.
Tonight, arriving back home after a weekend away, I confront a stained, dun-coloured ironing board cover. I crank the heat up and get cracking, because the kid has long since collapsed and both the new shirts are freshly clean, and crumpled. Damn. The bloke is away on his biannual surf safari, so it seems I'm stuck with the tools in hand. Well, while I'm at it, I guess I could do one or two of his shirts...
Things get messy here. Messy in my head. And messy on the board too, as I'm a pretty shit ironer, so it's always a botch job of ironed-in creases and wrinkled edges, but hey, who cares? If you don't like it, do it yourself, I say.
Messy because the idea of ironing has become a bit of a combat zone in our home. This is not to say that I hate ironing, or refuse to ever do it. It's just that, to me, it's not just ironing, it's a marker of certain 'oppressive' attitudes towards women. Certain expectations. To my partner it's a simpler zone of contention, regarding division of shared household duties. But this is not my area, I claim. This is no shared zone. I have no need to ever go there. Ironing a man's shirts is, well, how to put it, like being a servant, a domestic slave, a housekeeper, a wife? It is an image from the past, which fires in me a sense of outrage at what women, wives, mothers did, and do, for the men and children in their families. Do it yourself, I say. It's not my job, my duty, my role, my place. (By the way, #thankstony !)
So, as I stand and iron the two shirts for the 12 year old, I take a few extras from the bloke's cupboard and give them a runover. Press them, not to perfection, oh no, but just to pleasing point. It doesn't hurt too much. Still, it doesn't sit quite right. And for the sake of the future, my son will be getting the iron back in his hand as soon as he is next fit to wield it. While the shirts he now wears to school may be the designated uniform, soon enough he will be the man who chooses what to put on his own back. If the shirt fits, iron it, I say.
I don't iron. No need to. My clothes are casual, crumpled and many are even worn with holes. I don't care that much for the pressed look. So none of my clothes require the weight of hot metal and the shot of steam. Ok, I lie, there is a half silk-half cotton shirt dress I bought in Paris, but, well, that's Paris for you. You do crazy, stylish things.
For years, our household has had a clear division of labour in this area. It has not been without contest and tears. I'm the non-ironer, who, unleashed from the board, 'doesn't know how lucky she is', apparently. Lucky, that is, that I don't have to iron shirts each week. This isn't necessarily a gender thing, it's a choice thing, isn't it? I choose to not wear high maintenance clothes; my partner chooses to wear business shirts. Well, come to think of it, he doesn't. But that's what he's stuck with.
And now that's what we're stuck with.
The local high school has set us up with cotton-blend white shirts, which appear to be, um, crumpled after washing. What is this new horror?
In the first week, I handed the boy the iron and said 'this is how you iron a shirt. Just don't burn yourself. Or the shirt. Or the ironing board. And if you drop the iron, don't try to catch it. OK. Go.' Off he went, and produced a slightly less crumpled version of what had come out of the packet. Fold-lines still visible, sure, but it was clear an effort had been made.
Tonight, arriving back home after a weekend away, I confront a stained, dun-coloured ironing board cover. I crank the heat up and get cracking, because the kid has long since collapsed and both the new shirts are freshly clean, and crumpled. Damn. The bloke is away on his biannual surf safari, so it seems I'm stuck with the tools in hand. Well, while I'm at it, I guess I could do one or two of his shirts...
Things get messy here. Messy in my head. And messy on the board too, as I'm a pretty shit ironer, so it's always a botch job of ironed-in creases and wrinkled edges, but hey, who cares? If you don't like it, do it yourself, I say.
Messy because the idea of ironing has become a bit of a combat zone in our home. This is not to say that I hate ironing, or refuse to ever do it. It's just that, to me, it's not just ironing, it's a marker of certain 'oppressive' attitudes towards women. Certain expectations. To my partner it's a simpler zone of contention, regarding division of shared household duties. But this is not my area, I claim. This is no shared zone. I have no need to ever go there. Ironing a man's shirts is, well, how to put it, like being a servant, a domestic slave, a housekeeper, a wife? It is an image from the past, which fires in me a sense of outrage at what women, wives, mothers did, and do, for the men and children in their families. Do it yourself, I say. It's not my job, my duty, my role, my place. (By the way, #thankstony !)
So, as I stand and iron the two shirts for the 12 year old, I take a few extras from the bloke's cupboard and give them a runover. Press them, not to perfection, oh no, but just to pleasing point. It doesn't hurt too much. Still, it doesn't sit quite right. And for the sake of the future, my son will be getting the iron back in his hand as soon as he is next fit to wield it. While the shirts he now wears to school may be the designated uniform, soon enough he will be the man who chooses what to put on his own back. If the shirt fits, iron it, I say.
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